This Thing We Have Is Ours
by pieberries
Summary: Her day always gets worse, starting at the front desk. But there's a girl who sits with her on the bus, every day without fail, who always seems to lift her spirits, despite not even knowing her last name.


_a/n: inspired by Taylor Swift's new music video for 'Ours,' here's a little start of a fic I'm planning on writing with maybe three parts. Might keep it as a one shot for now, however. Faberry, kind of. Also, some Santana. au, obviously. _

**(this thing we have) is ours**

Waking up, the first thing she does is remind herself to breathe.

"Breathe, you're alive," she whispers to the darkness in front of her face as her alarm clock provides background noise. She always tells herself she'll change the settings so the alarm is a loud blaring _beep _repeated over and over versus the soothing sounds of the radio, but she can't do it. Just can't.

Outside the shelter of her warm blankets the air is cold, like always, and there is banging around in the apartment above her—like always. She knows the dusty cupboard in her tiny kitchen down the hall has a box of her favourite cereal in it. In the fridge, a carton of milk and some orange juice completes her breakfast. In her closet hangs replicas of the same outfit; a row of white blouses on top of a row of grey pencil skirts.

The only thing out of place is a lone sock lying twisted up on the ground that she had kicked off in her sleep. Crawling out of bed, the first thing she does is tug off the mangled sock on her left foot and tosses it in the laundry along with the discarded one from the floor. She reaches for her robe, tying the material belt tight against her waist.

Preparation for work continues. The noise in the apartment above her stops at exactly seven fifteen, as per routine. She's out the door twenty minutes before work starts, dragging the zipper along the front of her long coat as a shield against the frosty wind.

"Morning, Ms. Fabray," the bus driver greets her in a gruff voice. Quinn nods her head with a small smile in reply. She doesn't often muster up much of a greeting, as this is the bus she wants to be on the least.

It always starts at the front desk. Cold, unapproachable Ms. Lopez sits at the front desk with an evil eye for anyone who passes by. She barks at people with innocent questions continuously, despite the boss's constant attempts to keep her in check. She's about Quinn's age, young, probably in her exact same predicament: no where to go. They'd both be out of that office without as much as a 'good bye' to anyone who works there, if they had a choice. But it seems like the one thing they have in common is that they don't. Stuck in a rut.

"Fabray!" Ms. Lopez yells as Quinn passes by, wishing she was invisible, or better yet, home. The blonde turns slowly, edging back towards the front desk. A gold name tag with S. Lopez engraved is clipped to the top of the Ms. Lopez's shirt, which, Quinn couldn't help but notice, was much too low cut. The rumour around the building is that her name is Satan Lopez, born from hell.

"Letter," she says, pressing an envelope in Quinn's hands.

She looks down at the letter. "Thanks," she murmurs, skittering upstairs. She doesn't even have to look in it to know it's a reminder from her boss to pick up some kind of coffee for the meeting at the top floor.

She works at the kind of office that you see on television. All gray—gray cubicles, gray tables, gray computers. She sits at her cubicle, noticing a stack of notes next to her computer. _Copy sheets, file papers, write report... _

The young woman reluctantly gets up, shuffling around the papers she's expected to copy. As she walks over to the copier, heels clicking against the (gray) tiled floor, she gets stopped. "Quinn," one of the workers says, laying a sheet of paper on top of her already large stack. "Ten copies of that sheet, alright?"

She's expected. Because she's the young, new one, not capable of doing real work, stuck with the jobs no one else wants to do.

The day drags on. She calculates the light above her cubicle flicks two times per minute, the male in front of her checks his online dating profile approximately fifteen times every thirty minutes, and the woman next to her gets five cups of coffee between ten am and lunch time. She eats while she files things alphabetically at her small area, avoiding the cafeteria where the whispers at the tables next to hers are sure to drive her to insanity.

The moment she's allowed to get out is heaven. Gathering up her things, Quinn rushes down the stairs to the front desk, where Ms. Lopez is smiling as she reads a text message under the concealment of her hand. Her head snaps up, and when she sees Quinn standing there her face hardens. "Don't you have a bus to catch, Fabray?"

She would argue, but the brunette behind the front desk is right—she can't risk missing the bus. "Uh, yeah. See you tomorrow, I guess, Ms. Lopez." She turns to walk away, but a voice pauses her progress.

"Santana," Ms. Lopez says. "Call me Santana."

"Quinn," the blonde responds as she opens the door to the chilly air. With relief, she realizes the bus is just pulling up, and she knots her scarf around her neck as she runs up the steps. Her eyes sweep the seats for a familiar face.

"Hey," she greets the girl in the seat next to hers, plopping down. The same girl she's been sitting next to for a month. Her name is Rachel, a student performing lead in one of the musicals the city puts on every year. Rehearsals run every day from three to five, and she takes the same bus as Quinn home every day. She lives with her cat, Elphaba, alone in a small apartment and she really, really likes to talk.

"Hello, Quinn," Rachel replies, crossing her short legs at the ankles. It's only then Quinn realizes she has on a costume and a bouquet of flowers in her right hand, with a note that says '_break a leg!' _attached to it.

"Is the play over?" Quinn asks, her stomach sinking.

"_Musical,_" Rachel corrects her. "And yes, rehearsals are over. Tonight is opening night."

_Rehearsals are over._

This is the last time Rachel and Quinn would have a bus ride together. An end to the little bit of happiness and human comfort she received after so much work and effort at the end of the day, all for nothing in the end. The end to the rambling from Rachel that filled Quinn's thoughtful silence perfectly. The seats that always inhabited the two of them would be empty.

The bus screeched to a rough stop, disrupting her thoughts.

Rachel smiled a little. "Would you like to come? I know it's a little bit of an odd offer, since you mentioned you weren't into musicals, but I expect the show to be a huge hit. I have an extra ticket, since one of my dads can't make it."

Another little piece of information gained. She had two fathers. How peculiar, and yet not at all.

Here, she had the opportunity to go to a show of a girl she felt she actually liked to spend time with, despite their obvious differences. It would involve potentially screwing up her perfectly laid out routine. By taking the time to go to this show, she would miss the evening news, which means she would miss her extra filing time, which would mean potential trouble at work the next morning. Her sleep schedule would probably be altered if she got home late, which also meant less energy at work.

She only had one question to answer: was it worth it?

"What time is it?" Quinn asked finally, taking out her note pad and jotting down a few notes. "I'll try to be there."


End file.
